Magic Trick
by Face of Poe
Summary: Nearly two years after the events of 'The Reichenbach Fall,' Mycroft Holmes receives a visit from his CIA counterpart that shakes him to his core. What has Sherlock been up to since his disappearance; is his work truly finished? And is he still on the side of the angels?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, I make no money off of the creative genius of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**

**A/N**: My first foray into the world of Sherlock; hope you all enjoy. I'll be posting the whole thing at once, so no wait on chapters-yay!

**Magic Trick**

_Droll thing life is - that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself - that comes too late - a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. _

Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

**Prologue**

_It's a trick… just a magic trick._

_Sherlock!_

"Lestrade."

The inspector listened for a moment; his brow furrowed, then his eyes widened. "John? Christ, where are you? Doesn't matter, look- tell Sherlock that if he-" A longer pause that time, confusion settling in. "What? You're yanking me." His face paled to an ashen hue. "No, that's not- okay, alright. Yeah. John, let me send someone to… John?"

The line was dead. Lestrade ran a hand shakily over his face, and then looked out into the outer office. He saw her standing there, and knew he was being spiteful, but he didn't care. Grabbing his coat, he slung it over his arm and was out the door moments later, barking an order without breaking stride.

"Donovan, you're with me."

The junior detective caught up with him in the hallway heading towards the garage. "Where are we going?"

"Saint Bart's."

X-X-X

"Up on the roof, sir?" Donovan paused at the final stairway leading to the rooftop access. "What could there possibly be up here?"

"A body."

"On the roof?"

"Hm."

It was lightly raining; a typical, dreary London day. Typical, but one Lestrade knew he would never be able to forget. And one that was about to become incredibly bizarre, as they approached the collection of people already present at the body. Two security guards were holding a tarp over the body to protect potential evidence from any more rain. Probably a useless effort anyway.

"What've we got?" Donovan turned to business mode as she crouched under the cover.

One of the officers already present spoke up. "White male, no identification. Suicide, single shot through the head."

Donovan stiffened in surprise. "That- sir, this is Richard Brook!" Lestrade felt a flash of irritation at the pseudonym, but he kept his face impassive, watching Donovan get down and peer at and around the body. "Where is he?"

"Who, ma'am?" one of the officers asked.

"Holmes," she exclaimed, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Sherlock Holmes, surely he did this." There was a moment of total silence, punctuated only by the patter of raindrops on the ground around them. "Oh, come on," she rolled her eyes. "Sherlock Holmes, he contrived all the rest of it, do you _really_ think he couldn't make this look real, too?"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "You'll bring the body down?" He summoned Donovan forward. "Come on."

"Sir?"

He turned and quietly led the way back inside. There was a terse elevator trip down to the morgue as Donovan seemed to grasp that something was not quite right. When they walked into the morgue, they were met by the director, who nodded curtly.

"Where's Ms. Hooper?"

"Sent her off; figured she'd be of little use to me here."

Lestrade nodded towards the covered body sitting on the nearest slab. "May we?"

The director pulled his gloves back on and reached for the edge of the cover. "S'not pretty," he warned. "Five story fall, anterior landing. Crushed sternum and pelvis. The face… well…"

He pulled the cover back and Lestrade's voice caught in his throat, a hollow sensation settling in the pit of his stomach. Donovan frowned and stepped forward in confusion, before inhaling sharply and quickly retreating again. "Is that…? What happened to him?"

"Jumped, didn't he?"

The obvious tone of the morgue director shot another cold jolt through Lestrade. "Jumped, Donovan. Off the roof here," he glanced upwards. "You want to tell me why he'd kill someone and go through the trouble of making it look like a suicide, only to kill himself moments later?"

She didn't speak for a long minute, eyes glued to the swollen and bruised face until it was covered back up. Face blank, the young sergeant then turned back to her superior. "Did you bring me here for any other purpose than to guilt me?"

"Sure. I'm putting you on point."

"Sir?"

"Figure out what happened here. If this was really a double suicide, if anyone else was on the roof."

Her jaw worked tensely. "Alright; where's Watson?"

"No idea. Good luck finding him."

X-X-X

"He did it for you, you know."

For the last week, all of the well-intentioned but empty condolences had washed over him with no effect. His blank stare had remained unchanged, with maybe an acknowledging nod- or maybe not. But Molly's words were so strange, so different from the others, that it jolted him out of his reverie.

"He did what now?"

Her hands twisted anxiously, that nervous and defensive look creeping into her eyes. "He knew that Jim… that you'd be threatened, that it would be the most obvious way to get at him."

"So he chucked himself off a building to protect me?" Molly flinched back at his harsh tone. "Moriarty was after Sherlock, he never threatened me." _This time, anyway._

Molly went beet red, but she had that determined look in her eyes, that look she got when summoning the courage to call out Sherlock for always belittling her, and she doggedly persisted. "You really think Sherlock Holmes cared so much about his reputation to go and kill himself at the thought of it being ruined?" John's eyes reverted to their dull, listless state as he turned his attention back to studiously ignoring the people around him.

Molly. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft. Two bodyguards, failing spectacularly at blending in to the small gathering.

That was it. Those were the people who truly cared about the untimely passing of the most brilliant mind John Watson had ever known. Five of them, and the guards that MoD had insisted accompany Mycroft given the… confusion of recent events. A sad send off.

Then again, Sherlock wouldn't have wanted his memory tarnished by the stupidity and collective IQ drop of too many curious onlookers, so it was probably better this way. A week on, and London was already starting to forget about the brief phenomenon of the 'fraudulent' consulting detective, but enough enthused fans- and more than a few enthused enemies, likely- would probably have found their way to the funeral, given the opportunity.

Mycroft tried to say something to John at the end of the service. John wasn't ready for that though. He hadn't forgiven Mycroft, somewhat doubted that he ever would. And something about him… the difference between Mycroft and Sherlock was like night and day, but there was just enough similarity between them, a certain pretentious bearing, that made just watching or listening to him too much right now.

His bags were already packed, waiting in the cab that would take him to the rail station; he meant what he said to Mrs. Hudson. It would be some time before he could face 221B again. In the meantime, he'd go to Harry's, try to patch things up with her, at least until their next argument. Maybe try to get together for coffee with Clara before heading back to…

Back to where? He was back to square one, where he'd started eighteen months ago: lost and alone.

X-X-X


	2. Part 1

**Part 1**

"We got him."

Mycroft Holmes suddenly started paying far closer attention to his CIA counterpart, Joe Marshall. "Oh?"

For months, they'd chased a ghost around the world. Always one step behind (or more), they'd followed him or her- or them- from Europe to North Africa and Asia, and finally to the Americas, tracing dozens of connections to unsavory fringe groups. Terror cells, radical anarchists, nationalist fanatics, their ghost had seemingly unlimited connections among those who were all too good at helping people disappear. Rarely, they got a good enough trace on him to lead to his contacts for the higher organization, but by the time they would move in on them, he had always carried on- and several times, they suspected, carried sensitive materials with him.

A ghost wanted on charges of weapons smuggling, and those the least of their worries. Information, attack plans, access to crucial networks… they suspected him to be a goldmine for the counter-terrorism efforts, but that would first necessitate finding him- which the Americans seem have accomplished, at last- and then getting him to talk.

Mycroft's experience with individuals in American intelligence left him with no delusions that they were insecure in their abilities to make suspects speak up- which likely meant that they had discerned something critical to Britain during their interrogation and investigation. "So what have you learned?"

Or maybe his estimation was wholly wrong.

"Nothing." Marshall reached into his breast pocket and produced a mobile phone. "But we've been assured that all we could ever want to know is safely contained within this device."

"I do not understand," he probed evenly. "Why bring it here?"

Marshall steepled his finger tips under his chin and cocked a brow. "There's one identifying serial number on the phone. Only one. My people ran a trace of it and were directed to a file so heavily locked down, even I can't access it. The casing is rigged with what appear to be four small explosive devices, undoubtedly set to blow the hard drive if we even try."

The shadows of past events were rearing their ugly heads. Mycroft's hand stilled and then he shakily lowered his tea cup back to the saucer. Marshall was looking at him expectantly, like he knew that information would mean something to him. "Am I to guess that your predecessor steered you towards me?"

After the fiasco with Irene Adler was settled and ended violently with her dead in Pakistan, Mycroft and the superior of the Americans who had crossed paths with Adler, John, and Sherlock had closed the file down, utterly. Too much damaging information had been gathered from her camera phone; damaging enough to lock away, sensitive enough not to destroy completely.

He held out his hand, steady again, not betraying the unease in his mind and in his heart. Marshall handed over the mobile and Mycroft turned it over in his hand. It looked like the same device, certainly- same make and model, same color. The only external difference he noted at a glance was the evidence of additional wear. Rather than turn it on though, he crossed to a locked cabinet on the other side of his office and input the combination.

Sorting through the most secret of official documents in his possession, he at last located the file on Irene Adler- The Woman- and withdrew the mobile from the bag. He did not bother examining it- he knew that if it were not the same device, it was as precise a replica as possible and the differences probably undetectable at a glance.

There was some charge left in the battery, and as the screen powered on, he predicted the preprogrammed message that flashed up at him.

_Apologies, brother; I suspect I'll be needing it more than you. I trust you remember the password?_

His composure lasted long enough to turn on the other phone, see the all-too-familiar password prompt screen, and input S-H-E-R. When the recorded message began playing, and he heard his brother's voice echoing from out a cold, dark grave, he sat down heavily, hands definitely shaking as he listened.

'My dear brother- once this device has found its way back to your possession, I suspect I'll have been captured or killed by American intelligence. In the event of the latter… well, you think I'm dead already, so carry on as you were, the world needn't know any different.'

Mycroft's tea cup fell on the plush carpet; it did not shatter, but sent the hot liquid splattering across the carpet and the side of his desk.

'The information you will find on this phone should suffice to give you adequate leads on as many of Moriarty's connections around the world as I was able to discover. The ones you already routed in my pursuit were too imminently dangerous to let be, in my estimation. I… am sorry about Istanbul. There, I was too late.'

Istanbul, British consulate bombing, thirteen months ago. Eighty-nine dead, forty-seven of them British nationals.

'I am sorry, my brother; you saw as well as I though, that Moriarty's web was too deadly _not_ to do as I have done. His resources, his contacts, too far-reaching and too powerful. And contrary to what some might think, I do concern myself with the lives of faceless innocents. Rest assured, my experiences thus far have not been boring in the slightest.

'Do take care, would you?'

The recording ended and Mycroft's stony stare rose from the carpet to the discerning man in front of him. "Is he dead then?"

"Are you sure this isn't some sort of trick? I thought your brother-"

"_Is he dead?"_

X-X-X

He was asleep when Mycroft arrived at the medical facility on Andrews Air Force Base in the middle of the night. If it weren't for the minutes of undisturbed peace which he had to study Sherlock's appearance, Mycroft wasn't sure he'd have recognized him at all. His hair was short, practically buzzed, none of the trademark curl evident at that length; a bandage on his forehead and another on his left cheek covered two stitched wounds. His left arm was set in a sling, awkwardly resting against his body as he slept on his right side. A fading pattern still stood out against his pale face, the remnants of some form of long-lasting but temporary tattoo.

He was gaunt, cheekbones more prominent than usual. The past eighteen months had taken their toll physically. And Mycroft was more than a little anxious to know what mental toll they had taken as well, given his brother's already unique bearing.

For ten minutes, the older brother sat, watching the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, listening to the beeping of monitors, and thinking about the same questions which had consumed him on the red-eye flight over. Questions of how he'd done it- how he'd faked a suicide right in front of his best friend and a doctor to boot- for if Sherlock Holmes had any friend at all, it was John Watson. Questions about the final encounter between he and Moriarty on the roof at Saint Bart's, an encounter that left both of them presumably dead by their own hands. Questions of what came next, since surely his undercover sleuthing was necessarily at an end.

The slightest change in the rhythm of the heart rate monitor was Mycroft's first indication that his brother was awake. A slight shift in his breathing and an unnatural stillness signaled to him that Sherlock realized someone- not hospital staff, who would simply go about their job- was in the room with him, a fact that, until now, had likely been accompanied by some sort of interrogation. Apparently Sherlock had yet to utter a word, save to direct Marshall to the camera phone. His injuries were something of a blessing in disguise, they prevented any more physical tactics at gathering information until he received medical clearance.

It took him maybe twenty seconds. "Hello, Mycroft." His icy eyes opened and stared piercingly at the wall; he did not turn or otherwise move at all, in fact.

"How are you feeling?" Silence. Mycroft stood and walked around the bed in the direction his brother was facing; he remained standing though, did not force eye contact. "Sherlock, why didn't you come to me?"

Grey-blue eyes shifted upwards, shadows of his familiar skepticism lingering beneath the surface. "For what?"

"Help."

A derisive laugh. "I was dead, Mycroft; I _am_ dead. Can't be seen running to big brother when the going gets tough."

"Someone must have helped you; there's only so far you can fake a suicide. I know it wasn't John or Lestrade." He averted his eyes again. "Christ, Sherlock, ask the damn question." Silence. "He's fine… now. Been seeing a young lady from Surrey for the past year. He's bought the ring but hasn't yet proposed, God knows what he's waiting for." _Closure, perhaps_.

"Molly adjusted some records for me. That's all. There's only so much help one can expect while sitting in Evin for six torturous weeks."

Mycroft fought from wincing. They'd lost track of him for some two months in Iran before picking up his trail again near Islamabad; they'd never had indication that he was still in Tehran all that time. "Well, your records on Adler's old phone have proven invaluable. Marshall is willing to release you into my care with minimal inconvenience."

"Into your _care_?"

His dark eyes narrowed. "You're a mess, Sherlock and, for the second time in as many years, you've lost an identity to a fabricated death. You certainly can't carry on and it's rather best that you not stay here. If certain interested parties were to catch news of your deceit, you could be in danger." Sherlock's dark brow cocked upwards again. "You know what I mean."

"I can't go back; surely you've realized that."

"You mean to say you're _afraid_ to go back."

Sherlock lapsed into a long silence, long enough that Mycroft returned to the chair opposite the bed and peered at him quietly, watching him sort out whatever thoughts crowded his complicated mind. He'd been like that from a child, could go hours at a time enamored of some idea and losing track of any and everything around him.

"Afraid," he finally murmured. "Afraid. Me, Mycroft? I have battled the stuff of nightmares and come out on the other side; have walked through the very fires of hell. I stepped off a building to protect another. I have wrestled with death; it is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. _Afraid_, Mycroft? My capacity to experience fear has long been numbed. I simply _cannot _return."

"Then let me phrase it as such: if you aren't released into my custody, you will remain here for the duration of your recovery, at which point you will undergo a full debriefing in Langley."

Sherlock completed his abbreviated debriefing interview with Marshall twenty-eight hours later; received his medical discharge thirty hours later; thirty-one hours later, they were taking off and heading out over the Atlantic.

X-X-X


	3. Part 2

**Part 2**

It took six weeks for the clavicle fracture to heal suitably to remove the sling from Sherlock's left arm. Those weeks were painfully long for Mycroft, who returned home every night to a silent shadow of the person his brother once was. He did not spend countless hours bemoaning boredom, did not obsess over unsolved mysteries in the newspaper or on the internet, did not seem to follow much news at all, in fact. He was a shell who spent his time enamored of something so riveting in his own mind that he rarely opened his mouth and refused more meals than he took.

The question was, of course, whether Sherlock would- whether he _could_- reclaim the identity he'd once had, before he'd cast it off in an absolute and brutal fashion in order to reconstruct himself into someone new, lethal, and mysterious. The London public had forgotten the funny detective as quickly as they'd latched on to his quirky brilliance. Moriarty's status as international terrorist and criminal consultant had been verified by MoD, something Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed to note with simultaneous relief and guilt.

Practically speaking, there was nothing to stop Sherlock from returning to his past life, resuming his relatively quiet existence before he became the _Reichenbach Hero_. Or if there was something…

If there was something, Sherlock was guarding it with every bit the jealous secrecy that had defined his life for nearly the past two years and, really, much of his life prior to that.

X-X-X

05:55- alarm goes off; too quiet to hear, but footsteps barely audible from the room above.

05:58- second stair from bottom creaks as Mycroft descends for morning tea and newspaper.

06:25- second stair creaks as Mycroft returns to second floor to immaculately groom himself for the day.

06:45- housekeeper taps at door for breakfast order; hasn't given up after six weeks of silence.

07:02- second stair creaks for last time as Mycroft returns downstairs for breakfast.

07:20- tap at door; dainty footsteps of housekeeper letting in the driver.

07:22- two heavy sets of footsteps head towards front door; pause as Mycroft retrieves umbrella from coat closet.

07:22:30- front door snaps closed; grey-blue eyes snap open.

Long legs pivoted smoothly over the side of the bed as Sherlock sat up. He experimentally twisted his left arm around, working the shoulder joint that had been held immobile until the afternoon prior. It was stiff, a little shaky when he put some weight on it, but functional.

He dressed slowly and methodically after splashing some cold water on his face. Having mostly lived in dressing gowns for the past month and a half, there was something therapeutic in wearing more familiar garb. A light quirk touched his lips as he drew the scarf over his head; even Mycroft was slave to _some_ sentiment, to provide the habitual accessory he'd once mocked.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Sherlock glanced at the clock on the bedside table- 7:43. The housekeeper had a break from eight to nine, but usually skipped off ten or twenty minutes early. She didn't generally return until just after noon, after spending the morning doing the washing and the shopping before grabbing lunch and returning to the house. Afternoons were reserved for cleaning- today, Wednesday, she'd be upstairs, so Sherlock would have to get what he needed in the next four and a half hours.

He waited two minutes after hearing the front door latch to emerge quietly from the bedroom. A fresh pot of coffee later, and he was taking his mug- black, two sugars- upstairs to Mycroft's study. The computer up here would not have the security clearances to access the impressive array of networks available from his work office, but it would suit Sherlock's needs today. First though, he had to discern the password to even get into the system; setting his coffee down on the desk, he meandered around the small study, hands folded behind his back, observing and thinking.

The wall behind the desk was comprised of bookshelves, methodically arranged in a system of Mycroft's own design. Midway across the room, Sherlock's brow furrowed, and he quickly scanned the titles on the bottom shelf from left to right before selecting a book seemingly at random. He reached into the gap left on the shelf, smiled inwardly, and withdrew the cigarette pack that comprised his brother's emergency stash.

Too bad the smell would linger if he had one now; nevertheless, Mycroft was unlikely to look for them anytime soon. Sherlock slipped the pack into his breast pocket, returned to the computer, flexed his knuckles, entered the password, and got to work.

X-X-X

Trafalgar Square bustled with typical tourist activity on a hot Monday afternoon. Ordinary people were so quaint, with their incessant need to look at old and useless structures, take awkwardly-angled photographs of themselves to prove it, and move on to the next must-see site in the _London A-Z_.

Sherlock stared uninterestedly up at the centre column in the square as he reached into his pocket for a lighter and the cigarettes he'd snagged from Mycroft's study the week prior. Two young women- a couple, he deduced, on holiday from Quebec, though Paris was their ultimate destination- gave him scandalized looks as he took a long drag. He stalked off toward the National Gallery before exhaling; the world was becoming such a dull, proper place, with no tolerance for such a delicious habit.

The men and women working the security station at the gallery entrance were predictably lazy about their jobs, focused more on expediency than on recognizing the contraband in patrons' bags. This included bottles of water, more audacious cans of soda and even beer, and highly banned chewing gum from the parties around him.

An event listing display sat beside the information desk just inside the Portico. Sherlock looked the tourist, browsing the upcoming classes, performances, and exhibits, and picking up a tri-fold pamphlet about an exhibition of royal portraits, in honor of the queen's impending coronation anniversary that would occur in two weeks.

The Vestibule stairs thronged with traffic, and Sherlock blended into the ascending crowd heading up to the show rooms. The people dispersed, too dull to understand that the layout of the museum was purposeful, that one was intended to view it in the rooms' numerical order. Sherlock skipped over Room 1 as well, however, meandering instead through the shop at the top of the stairs, and eventually to an exhibition hall at the other end of the main foyer.

The Sunley Room was closed; it would be home to the celebratory royal affair. The entrance was locked, with a harsh sign warning against unauthorized personnel.

X-X-X

"So… if it isn't _the_ Sherlock Holmes, at last." He looked up coolly as a lean man- tall, but not as tall as he- slid into the seat opposite him in the café. He was lean but with a wiry sort of muscle, stronger than he looked at first glance. A strength honed from years of physical dedication, a thinness borne of recent stress, busy with weeks of constant travel, not taking the time to sit and eat a proper meal nearly often enough. _That_, at least, sounded familiar. "Your brother really must be something, for you to be here at all."

"I said it would not be a problem, if I survived."

The man smiled, but it was cold; did nothing to ease the icy cruelty in his dark eyes. "The man who has twice cheated death, and now eased himself out of the CIA's claws. And your brother isn't having you watched?"

"I gave them enough that ulterior motives never crossed his mind. In any event- he thinks me broken. His worry is adorable."

"And your former… assistant? The captain?"

Stiffening ever so slightly, he cocked a brow and frowned. "What about him?"

"Is he out of the picture?"

"John would not understand. He has moved on, I thought it best to let him."

With unspoken agreement, they stood in unison. With the same clarity with which he'd once read John Watson's military service, Sherlock saw the ex-colonel's career in his stiff movements, in his rigid stance, the bitter pride and resentment behind his cold demeanor. A man who had honorably retired from the service would not carry the sort of weight with him this man did, this man who clung to his military roots like a lifeline and a curse; a man who had been invalided and forced home would carry his history subconsciously, as John did. No, this man had been told to leave the one thing that had ever mattered to him, and he bore that grudge mindfully, constantly.

It took only a few minutes to find a flustered gallery director to let them into the closed Sunley Room after a fast but thorough examination of their MoD security badges. The works which would later comprise the royal exhibit had not yet been hung; they were priceless national treasures, some of them centuries old, they would be risked on open display only exactly as long as necessary. But the room was already blocked out as it would be for the gala and following exhibit, and the two tall men walked the perimeter, perusing potential weak points in the security.

When they were finished, they took their time leaving the building, noting details of the path from the exhibition room to the Portico entrance through which Sherlock had entered. Once back in the square, amidst the predictable and dull tourists, the former colonel grabbed a pack of cigarettes; Sherlock took one and waited for a light.

"So, Moran," he drawled, sucking in the delicious and addicting fumes as he eyed the Afghan War veteran challengingly, "if you had a mind to it, where would _you_ plant a bomb?"

X-X-X


	4. Part 3

**Part 3**

"Sherlock… Sherlock? _Sherlock!_"

He blinked up at his brother's scowling visage, and then looked around the sitting room in momentary confusion. "Home already?"

Mycroft shook his head, expression torn between exasperation and bemusement. "It's nearly eight o'clock."

"Lost track of time then."

"Lost track… you've been sitting unresponsive for three and a half hours." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Mrs. Lilienfeld called me before she went home." Now that he mentioned it, Sherlock supposed he could vaguely recall the housekeeper peering worriedly at his still form from halfway across the room, not wanting to get too close. Irrelevant to his ongoing thought process, he'd simply tuned her out. "What are you doing?"

"Napping."

"In the sitting room."

"My room is so woefully dreary, I've never much cared for it."

Mycroft's patience was visibly wearing, but he did make an effort. In consideration of his little brother's 'trauma,' no doubt. "As I recall, it was near impossible to coerce you from it as a child, if you saw nothing useful to be gained in the real world at that particular moment." He turned and headed back towards the foyer. "Though I suppose," he called over his shoulder, "that for a precociously brilliant young child, it is more tolerable to live in the imagination than deal with day-to-day ignorance from patronizing adults who will never understand him."

Sherlock had not lasted long in a rigid school setting, before their parents came to the obvious conclusion that a private tutor would better suit the young boy, who only displayed obvious interest in the classroom if it was to correct one of his instructors.

He followed Mycroft through the foyer, down the hall, and to the kitchen where his brother was setting a kettle boiling. Sherlock grabbed the tea; for as little time as he'd spent in the house since Mycroft inherited it, he still remembered where things had been kept twenty years ago, and Mycroft had made few changes. Was probably not around enough to care, let alone bother.

A plate of cold sandwiches, vegetables, and hummus was produced from the fridge, a substantial quantity. "Falling off the diet?" His tone was only half-heartedly snide.

"Half is for you." Mycroft chuckled mirthlessly. "Are you really so oblivious? Mrs. Lilienfeld has left dinner for you every night you've been here."

"I never eat it."

"She's a creature of habit. An inexplicably compassionate one, at that."

Something in his tone gave Sherlock the sense that he ought to be feeling chastised, but he was somewhat unclear as to why. He never ate the food she left for him, she continued to leave it- it was a wasteful habit, not a compassionate one.

In the midst of mixing his tea, Mycroft's mobile vibrated on the countertop. He took it out to the hallway and spoke in low murmurs for several minutes, while Sherlock quietly drank and sampled a hummus-dipped cucumber slice. It tasted like slimy paste and earth. Then again, food was such a functional thing, pleasure was hardly an important factor; he never had understood people who fetishized nourishment.

Pursed lips were the only visible sign of Mycroft's irritation when he returned. "Trouble in that minor position you occupy?"

"The Chief of Defence is arriving tomorrow evening from a survey in Afghanistan. He's been a royal pain since he took up the position, he never thinks these Americans are 'doing the job right.'" Sherlock stared blankly; Mycroft rolled his eyes. "General Richards- he was the head of NATO forces there for a year- didn't find room for that piece of information in your head?"

"Not if he wasn't there at the same time I was."

"Hm, well. He's demanding a full inquiry into the status of British forces. Too many young men and women wounded or killed, not enough accomplished."

But Sherlock had already tuned him out by the end of his explanation.

Afghanistan.

Of course.

X-X-X

The woman watched the couple ascend the three steps to the door of the apartment building; the man, who stood short but straight, almost stiff, held the door open for his fiancé. She was a pretty blonde thing, tiny; despite her companion's short stature, he still towered over her by nearly a head.

For two weeks now, she'd sat outside the same art deco building at the same time, watching their ritualistic movements. She could set her watch by the regularity of their schedule, when they left in the morning and went opposite ways to their respective jobs, when they arrived again the evening, after meeting up for tea or coffee and walking home together.

Ritual, predictability, those were comforting things to a certain type of person; but it also made for an easy target, when at any given time, an interested party could make a guess with extreme accuracy as to ones whereabouts and actions.

A military sort, an _officer_, should have known that; should have known _better_.

X-X-X

They were barely ten minutes into what promised to be a long and tedious meeting when the whole thing started to unravel. Mobiles started buzzing and ringing around the conference table. A murmuring of quiet voices replaced the heated back-and-forth from moments earlier, and a good third of the table up and left without another word.

Mycroft's phone had not yet rung, but he received a text which he stared at in confusion for several seconds before stiffening and wondering how he could be so stupid. One of his alternate identification access cards had been logged without prior notification or approval; the watchdogs who kept track of such things needed to know whether it was an oversight…or a security breach.

For weeks, Sherlock had existed in a sullen, silent state, refusing to interact with him or the housekeeper, let alone leave the property or tell any of his old acquaintances of his survival. But yesterday had been different; yesterday, following a protracted such state, his brother had engaged him in conversation, seemingly casual.

Foolish of him to mistake any act of Sherlock's as simple curiosity or politeness. Sherlock did not do simple _or_ polite. Nor did he do wounded trauma. What was it he always said, in his younger days? The brain was what was important; the rest was just transport. What had that distracted brain been up to in the past two months?

He was about to call Mrs. Lilienfeld to ask if Sherlock had been home when she'd left, when the man across the table from him announced, "There's been some sort of terrorism threat at the royal gala, over at the Gallery; sounds like MPS got things sorted."

Mycroft scowled; that should have been the Secret Service's area; how the Metropolitan Police had gotten themselves in the middle of it… "The family?"

"Almost back to the Palace."

"Who's on point from the Yard?"

"Ah…" the undersecretary spoke quickly to his point of contact. "Some man called Lestrade."

He cocked a brow. "Get him here, immediately."

"Sir."

But before he could return to parsing out Sherlock's whereabouts, any semblance of retaining order evaporated as a guard stuck his head inside the conference room. "Sirs, we're evacuating the building, we've had what we believe to be a credible bomb threat." His warning was punctuated by the alarm system going off, which drew anyone not already standing to his feet.

The Chief of Defence Staff sitting at the head of the table met Mycroft's eye, shrugged resignedly, and gestured them all to vacate the conference room. Mycroft fell back to apologize for the fiasco and discuss rescheduling; but as they saw the rest of the junior defence staffers out of the room, a tall and imposing figure swept in, pulling the door closed and locking it behind him.

"Sorry, General, I need you to stay here. Why don't you have a seat?"

Few things shocked Mycroft Holmes; but he was utterly speechless at the scene before him.

"And who the bloody hell are you?" Richards demanded.

"Someone trying to save your life; have a seat."

"From what?"

"From…? Someone trying to kill you, obviously. Sit."

"Perhaps you missed that there could be a bomb in the building?"

"Bomb? No, not really his style. Assassin, I'd guess sniper, and drawing you _out_ of the building would be the perfect way to exercise his strengths. We'll wait here, force him on to your turf; shouldn't take more than a few minutes for him to recognize the failure of his plans, I expect."

Richards stared in nonplussed confusion a few seconds before heading for the door again. "Stand aside."

The figure sighed fatalistically. "I said," he withdrew a handgun from his pocket, "_have a seat_."

The chief froze as Mycroft finally snapped out of his shocked reverie. "Sherlock!"

X-X-X

It had been some three years or close to it since John Watson had woken in a position as compromising as the one in which he currently found himself. In fact, the situations were near identical, as he could recall, save the more hospitable environment of the bland room they were now in, instead of the dank tunnel near the tube stop; sharp pain in head, suggesting an incapacitating blow he couldn't quite remember yet, bound to a chair, tight enough to uncomfortably restrict the circulation in his wrists. And the last time he'd wound up in such a situation…

With a glance to his left, his heart dropped. Just like the last time with Sarah, there was Mary. Not in the sort of immediate, mortal danger that had characterized Sarah's kidnapping by the Black Lotus gang, but bound just as him. She was already wide awake- perhaps their captor hadn't anticipated or received a struggle from her- and was staring at him with wide, fearful green eyes.

John Watson- formerly captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers-seethed with a sort of fury that had not gripped him in years. This part of his life was over, the part where danger lurked around every corner. Experienced first in Afghanistan, and then by the side of Sherlock Holmes, he'd lived out a lifetime's worth of adventures, mourned the end of them with his best friend's death, and moved on at last.

This part of his life was supposed to be over; it wasn't fair to Mary. He'd sworn to abide by a more normal lifestyle, but she was here and in danger all the same.

There was no indication yet of what their captor wanted with them; nothing to give John any clue as to the likelihood of them getting out of this alive. But there was one thing he'd been meaning to do, and no way in hell was a situation like this going to stop him.

"Ma-" he coughed and cleared his throat, "Mary?"

She glanced around nervously before whispering back, "Yes?"

"You know that green raincoat of mine? The one you hate?"

Her expression suggested she worried for his sanity. "Yes…"

"In the inner pocket, there's a case, about five, six centimeters square, lined in velvet, with a ring inside."

"John…"

"It's white gold, three stones- simple, as you like. But the side stones are emerald and they match your eyes perfectly." He heard footsteps coming up a staircase behind them, and hurried up. "Mary Morstan- will you marry me?"

A single tear slipped down her cheek. "Of course I will, John."

The footsteps grew heavier and a door opened he couldn't see opened and closed again. "Awake then, are we?" a rough voice asked.

"And who might you be?"

"Me?" a short man, but with a look of compact strength, stepped between their chairs into view. He settled himself in an armchair facing them, a look of utter relaxation on his face. "I'm nobody; just the messenger, so to speak."

John waited a minute for him to elaborate; he didn't. "And what's the message?"

"Oh, it's not for you. For your friend, if he doesn't behave for my boss."

"Friend? What friend?"

X-X-X


	5. Part 4

**Part 4**

"Holmes, what is the meaning of this?"

"Sherlock, what has possessed you?"

"As I explained-"

"You _know_ this man?"

"Shut up! Everybody just shut up." Sherlock took up a chair and swiveled it so he faced midway between the door and the general. "Sherlock Holmes, General," he offered a little half-salute with the gun; Mycroft rolled his eyes and put his head in his hand. "As I stated- shouldn't be too long now."

The general looked between the two men with a look of incredulous distaste. "Holmes," he repeated, turning his attention to Mycroft. "You're _related_ to this mad man?"

"Only by blood," Sherlock muttered.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Mycroft stood sharply and stared down his younger brother. "I don't know what you've done, but I think it's high time that-"

A look flashed through Sherlock's eyes, a look Mycroft could not recall ever seeing there before. It was not annoyance or irritation, not even anger- it was complete and utter rage. "What _I've_ done?" he repeated. "Me, Mycroft? I told you I could not return, you gave me no choice; this is on _you_, if something happens to the general here."

"Oh," a fourth voice broke in calmly, "it isn't the general you ought to be concerning yourself with, Mister Holmes." The stiff, lean man from the Gallery walked slowly into the room, pocketing the access card he'd used to open the door and quietly closing the door again behind him. "Moriarty was right about you; I'm impressed." He turned his attention to the Defence Chief. "General."

It took the general a few seconds to put a name to the face; the wait only seemed to enrage the would-be assassin all the more. "Moran?" The absence of rank made the ex-colonel go red in the face.

"You remember then, good." He very deliberately turned his back, a purposeful disrespect to a former superior officer, and smiled cruelly at Sherlock. "We've accomplished a good deal together, you and me. I'm sorry that you felt you must deny me this one thing. And I'm afraid you might have made one miscalculation."

"Oh?"

The cruel smile widened. "The Gallery was a convenient distraction, but not a false one; there really is going to be an attack there, any moment now."

As if on cue, a distant _bang_ sounded from across the mall; the white curtains in the windows glowed briefly red and green, and cheers could briefly be heard from Trafalgar overtop the sirens and confusion from the street below.

"Fireworks," Sherlock smiled. "It is a celebration, is it not? The Queen's…" he glanced at Mycroft, who sighed again, "fiftieth…?"

"Sixtieth, Sherlock…"

"Sixtieth anniversary of the Queen's coronation. The royal family members who were present for the gala have been whisked away by now of course, after the attack attempt was uncovered, but ordinary people are so easily distracted when things might seem amiss." He gestured Moran back towards the door. "Shall we be moving along, then, before you find yourself accused of actually trying to commit domestic terrorism, rather than just an accessory to it?"

If any of them had thought Moran looked angry before, it was nothing to his ire now. "You _dare_…? I am a patriot, Sherlock Holmes. All I do- all I have _ever_ done- has been in service to this country!" He rounded on Richards, apparently recalling his purpose there in the first place. "And _you_- you could never see that. I was a good soldier, and a good officer."

"You were a _skilled_ soldier and officer, Sebastian. But even war has rules and you did not follow them."

"I killed bad men; nothing more."

The general looked surprisingly sympathetic- or perhaps it was merely pity. "It was never your place to make that judgment." He rose to his feet, and glanced skeptically at Sherlock. "Despite his unusual methods, Mister Holmes is correct; do not make matters worse for yourself."

Moran grimaced. "I am afraid it is not so simple as that. You _won't_ be leaving this room alive, General, if I understand anything about Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh?" the former consulting detective looked genuinely curious at whatever insight Moran proposed to have gleaned. "Do tell."

"Why did you fake your death nearly two years ago? It wasn't so you could go running around the world after Moriarty's people, was it?"

"No."

"For all of your awkward aloofness, you do care about one or two people in this world."

"Your point?"

"My point," he stated slowly and silkily, "is that John Watson is an easy man to track down these days."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "So if I understand you, I- being the only one armed in the room at the moment, you're a rifleman and no offense, but it's clearly not hiding in one of your pockets- I kill General Richards or your man kills the doctor? No, that's too easy, and John's a soldier, too, and would still instinctively prioritize protecting a superior, so… oh!" His eyes widened in realization. "Oh! That's good, that's clever. What should I care about her, I've never met her, but if your man kills his… girlfriend, fiancée thing…"

"Then he won't even care that you're alive since you'll have killed her. It'd be _worse_ than killing him, wouldn't it?"

For a moment, he actually appeared to think it over. "Sherlock…" Mycroft murmured warningly.

The sounds of heavy footsteps could be heard on the floor above them; voices working their way down the corridor on their level, possibly searching for an explosive device, possibly for the personnel who had failed to evacuate the building. "Better hurry," Moran smiled darkly. "Time is short."

"So it is," Sherlock agreed, turning the gun over in his hand. He'd killed people before, certainly; but never like this, point-blank and unarmed. "If I might take a moment to explain one, final miscalculation on _your_ part. You're absolutely correct, I faked my suicide to protect the lives of three people I hold quite dear… but chasing after Moriarty's people- _that_ was to protect someone else, someone who already owed me her life and was sworn to repay a debt in kind. I've never worried much after my own life, but I knew what a pawn John would be for my enemies if I returned to London."

His dire situation did not yet seem to have dawned on Moran. "Who?"

"Someone who knows you. Well," a half-smile quirked his lips, "someone who knows what you like."

"I don't-"

The buzzing of a phone made him pause; the sound of an indecent feminine sigh, muffled from his coat pocket, hung awkwardly in the air between the four men.

"The Woman." Sherlock's smile vanished; he raised his gun, and shot Moran straight through the chest. He was dead before he hit the floor.

X-X-X

Their captor had taken to silence while playing games on his phone, presumably waiting on a message from that boss of his as to whether they were going to die. Not that John was especially hopeful of living, but he was rather hoping he would have the opportunity to propose to Mary properly, and not have his last decent memory be describing the ring to her while bound to an uncomfortable wooden chair.

"Any chance we could watch telly or something?" The man looked up blankly. "You know, pass the time…" his gaze returned to the phone. "No, right. Silence is best."

"Oh," a soft voice called from a doorway to his right. "I don't know about that. What's the fun in being tied up if you can't make some noise about it?"

The phone fell to the floor as the man opposite jumped to his feet. John barely registered the motion, staring as he was, jaw dropped and eyes wide, at a ghost. It was her though, no mistaking it, looking just as mischievous as ever though nowhere near as coiffed and groomed.

"Oy! How'd you get in there?" His expression was more confused than alarmed, a hesitant recognition in his eyes.

"Window," she winked, slinking toward the agape man standing in front of his abandoned chair. "I have a message from your boss."

"Oh really? And what might thaaa…urghh…"

"Relax," Irene withdrew the syringe and pushed him back into his chair. "Idiot." She spun, a wide and charming smile on her face. "Hello, Doctor Watson."

"What in the _bloody hell_ are you doing here?"

"Good to see you, too," she teased, kneeling behind Mary's chair and untying her bonds. "And you're welcome."

Mary murmured a confused thanks, but John just kept shaking his head as his own bonds were undone. "You're dead. And he has a gun! What if he'd shot you?"

"Or us," Mary added faintly.

"Or us!" John stood and worked out his arms and wrists, feeling tingling sensation return to his hands.

Sliding a small knife back into a leather sheath, Irene waved aside their concerns. "He knew me, I used to be acquainted with his boss."

"Of course you did."

"And anyway," she grinned, digging through the unconscious man's pockets for the handgun, "I unloaded it earlier. He never bothered to check."

John considered a moment, and then concurred. "Idiot."

"Quite."

"And _how_ are you not dead?" She just gave him a look. "Sherlock," he sighed. "Sherlock goes to bloody Pakistan to save a woman who totally betrayed him. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot, too. Come on then. There's a car waiting out front to take you back into the city, to the Defence Ministry."

Mary more than eagerly started towards the stairs after Irene, glad to trust the unknown rescuer. John followed, but skepticism kept him wary and asking questions. "Why? Why there?"

"Because there, Doctor Watson," she gestured them ahead of her out the front of the house, "is where answers lie."

He was vaguely uneasy about blindly getting into a car at the behest of Irene Adler, but he saw little alternative. No money, no mobile, no clue where they were…he resignedly climbed in after Mary, who just seemed eager to get away from here quickly as possible.

"Until next time," Irene leaned on the open door. "Do have a better care after yourself, won't you?"

"Wait," he thought she'd be answering some of his burning questions, "aren't you coming?"

"I don't think my presence would be appreciated by some. But do tell Sherlock that I'll be in touch."

His brows furrowed and he shook his head. "What are you…? Sherlock's dead."

"Don't forget, Doctor," she winked again and blew a kiss, "so am I."

The door slammed shut and she tapped on the roof to signal the driver; they pulled away instantly, headed back into London.

X-X-X

Sherlock surrendered the gun as soon as the heavily armed guards burst through the door following the shot, but that did not particularly inspire them to be forgiving or gentle. He was quickly rushed into a corner of the room, a wall of guards between him and the other occupants, and frisked, his pockets stripped of his phone, gloves, cigarettes and lighter, and small bit of money he carried, as well as the identification card he had stolen from Mycroft's study.

Chief of the Defence Staff, General Richards, stared for a minute at the body on the floor, the blood spatter on the wall behind him, before turning to join the informal interrogation taking place in the opposite corner.

Mycroft cut him off. "Sir, if I may- about my brother…"

"I always thought you were a special kind of unique, Holmes," Richards pinned him with a searching gaze. "Is your whole family so crazy then?" He didn't wait for an answer.

"Mister Holmes?" Mycroft looked up wearily at a young guard before him. "There's a DI Lestrade here to see you…"

Of course. He'd entirely forgotten the fiasco at the National Gallery, though by now, he could predict well enough how MPS had come to be involved in the events there. "Let him in."

Lestrade was waiting in the hallway already; the guard beckoned him in, and he stepped gingerly around the body on the floor, a bewildered look on his face. One of his sergeants followed behind, looking around at the increasingly crowded conference room. "Lestrade," Mycroft nodded down at him. "I was going to ask how you found yourself in the middle of things at the gala this evening, but I think I have my answer after all."

The detective inspector looked at him like he was crazy. "You told me to be there, sir."

Ah- so Sherlock had hacked his computer as well. He opened his mouth to try to begin to explain, when Sherlock spoke up from between two burly guards who were frog-marching him from the room. "Apologies, Lestrade, that was me; ah, Sergeant Donovan! You remember how you told John that one day, a body at a crime scene would be there because of me? Well, let me assure you that finally, you are quite right."

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade stared. Donovan went pale. "You were…"

"Dead on a slab, yes. A magic trick, Detective. Just a magic trick. One that saved your life though, if you care to know; yours, Mrs. Hudson's, and John's." He glanced irritably at one of the men seizing him. "It seems though that my comeuppance is catching up with me."

Mycroft held up a hand. "Where are you taking him?" he asked the general.

"Up to my office." He nodded around the room. "Sort this out, Holmes, and meet us. I think we can work something out."

_Sort this out_. Mycroft was glad to interpret that as freely as it implied. "Yes, sir."

X-X-X


	6. Conclusion

**Conclusion**

"It was Irene Adler who first told me of Sebastian Moran." Sherlock stood at an immense open window, cigarette in hand, blowing the smoke out into the open London air as he watched the traffic on the street below. "They'd made one another's acquaintance in London before she became mixed up with Moriarty. He helped her avoid Moriarty while she was on the lam after faking her death… the first time."

Mycroft spoke quietly from an armchair by the fireplace in Richards' impressive office. "Then he was not associated with Moriarty?"

"Oh, they certainly knew one another; they were rivals, of a sort. Moran was not lying, he was primarily operating, in his mind, with Queen and country as foremost priorities, even after his military career was ended in Afghanistan. But he allowed himself to be drawn into Moriarty's games and he lost focus. If Moran supported an opposition group aiming to overthrow a regime hostile to Britain and her allies, then Moriarty would take the side of the government. A competition to supply their respective sides with money, weapons, technology. They played a real-life game of Risk that became more about besting one another than the actual results.

"With Irene's help, I got into contact with him. Together, we drew out every last ally of Moriarty's we could identify and reach; I sent Irene back to London to keep an eye on John."

Mycroft smiled drily. So two months ago, when Sherlock had expressed no interest in the well-being of his best friend…it was because he'd already known John's every recent movement.

"He eased into it, but subtly, in the course of our correspondence, Moran began to express a good deal of interest in the fact that I had a brother highly placed in the government. I could not figure out why, but knew that he would be watching Mycroft's movements after my capture, to ascertain if I had survived and returned. The plot against the gala tonight was long known to him, and we established a rendezvous at the Gallery two weeks ago, in the event I made it back to London."

He fell silent for a few minutes as he finished the cigarette. A sleek car drew up to the curb on the darkened street below, and the corner of his mouth quirked upward as a couple emerged and spoke to an MP investigating their intentions.

"I took a gamble; I acquired the ID card he would need to access the gala, but knowing that he must have intended for me to stop the bombing on my own while he pursued other vendettas. When we spoke though, I could read little of his intentions, only his past. It wasn't until last night, out of desperation to discover what he could possibly want with a card that would give him access to nearly any place in Britain, I finally asked Mycroft."

Mycroft harrumphed softly. _Trouble in the minor position you occupy?_ That was Sherlock's version of asking his advice.

"Knowing Moran's last military service had been in Afghanistan, and that he bore a bitter grudge against whomever or whatever drove him from the Army… it began to make sense when Mycroft mentioned your arrival, General. Even more so when I researched the time frame in which Moran served compared to your tenure there leading ISAF.

"That still left me with the problem of dealing with the attack at the Gallery. Knowing the schedule of events, however, and having scoped out the premises multiple times in the past two weeks, it was painfully obvious when, how, and where the attempt would occur."

"So you hacked my computer and sent highly classified correspondence to Lestrade," Mycroft surmised.

Sherlock waved him off. "Don't be absurd, I hacked your computer weeks ago."

The general's lip twitched once, the closest he seemed to get to amusement. The expression quickly sobered, however, and he sized Sherlock up and down calculatingly. "Regardless of his intentions, you _have_ murdered a man in cold blood tonight."

"I learned with James Moriarty that some men are too dangerous and too resourceful to leave it up to due process. Perhaps that makes me as bad as Moran, I don't know. But you're alive, and…" a knock at the door interrupted him; Mycroft stood to answer it. "John Watson and his fiancée are alive. I believe that's what one would call a result."

Low but increasingly loud voices sounded from the doorway, before John Watson shoved past the far-taller Mycroft Holmes and just stared across the room. Sherlock met his gaze for a moment, and then turned back to the general one last time. "General-I would be quite willing to return in the morning for whatever… consequences… you deem necessary; but if I might have just tonight, I would be most grateful. Believe me, I've no desire to run or hide anymore."

The older military man considered him a moment, then glanced at Mycroft. "Holmes?"

"Whatever shortcomings my brother may possess in tact and technique, he is a man of his word, sir."

With a nod from the general, Sherlock turned and took three long strides to where John stood with a bewildered young woman by his side, her sharp green eyes staring around the room before settling on the tall and imposing figure before her.

"You must be Mary." He offered his hand and she slowly took it. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Pleasure," she replied faintly.

John just shook his head as Sherlock looked at him, searching for words. "So."

"So."

"Not dead then."

"Not dead." He tied his scarf and gestured out the door with one gloved hand. "Dinner?"

X-X-X

**A/N: Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed. :-)**

**-Lexi**


End file.
